Takes Your Breath
by madame.alexandra
Summary: It's impossible to breathe in an attic in Marseille; the heat goes to their heads and breeds recklessness. Part 1 of a triptych. Jibbs, backstory-ish. This is pure smut; be forewarned!


_**A/N: a triptych of sorts. 3 part story set in their Paris days. i can't seem to be able to keep my hands off their backstory* lately. part 1/une.**_

* * *

_"It takes your breath  
'cause it leaves a scar  
but those untouched  
never got  
never got very far."  
_

_[The Truth About Love; P!nk]_

* * *

_August. Marseille. 1999._

It was hotter than hell under the slanted roof in that old, cramped attic.

The insulation in the abandoned, dilapidated house was a bitch. Suited for chilling winters, it soaked up coastal France's sweltering summer heat and oozed it into the interior of the building, marinating the occupants in a muggy, humid atmosphere.

It was too hot to _breathe_.

It was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, hot enough to _see_ the air sizzling and moving in waves, hot enough to make mouths dry and skin slick and blood _boil_ until the body it sustained was lethargic and uninhibited, hot enough to melt perfume off tempting bare skin and hang it precipitously in the air, a cloud of intoxicating scent.

It was hot enough for his junior agent to be wearing denim shorts that barely covered her ass.

Gibbs tilted his head back to the metal frame of the rickety bed he leaned against, one hand thrown lazily over his knee. He let his eyes wander over the female body stretched out languidly in front of him. He started at her feet, encased in sturdy-but-feminine brown boots that laced up to her ankles, dragged his gaze over the backs of her knees and thighs, over her ass and the bare stretch of skin exposed from her white shirt bunching under her, to her shoulders, her knotted red hair, and the back of her head.

She moved occasionally, lifting a foot and tapping her toe lightly for a moment, or crossing her slim ankles over one another before shifting back. She shook her head, or made a soft sighing noises as she blew hair from her lips and eyes; she moved a shoulder or shifted her hips, almost grinding them into the wood floor—that drove him crazy, that little move.

It was the shorts that kept his attention though, the faded denim, tattered Daisy Dukes that he _swore_ were showing off just the _barest_ hint of her ass. The waist of them lifted away from her skin slightly at the back, showing the dip in her spine, a tease, suggesting he should hook his finger in space and yank her onto her back.

She lifted her foot lazily once more, tapping the toe three times into the wood, and shook her head again, red hair tumbling. He raised his eyes in a silent curse to the ceiling and shifted, sitting up straighter, moving his legs subtly.

Gibbs didn't wear _shorts_, even in this weather; shorts, he decided, were the bane of his existence, but never had his jeans been so damn tight; uncomfortable.

There wasn't even the comfort of cool metal; the frame his head rested against was sticky and lukewarm in the heat.

His eyes traveled over her body again, lingering this time on the way her hips arched _just_ slightly, so her bones wouldn't dig into the floor beneath her, lingering on the skin revealed by her loose white shirt that both clung to her and hung over her flimsily.

_How_ did it _do_ that?

_tap-tap-tap_

The toe of her boot lightly on the floor again—that she still had those damn things on was a feat in itself; boots, in this volcanic weather? And she'd worn them all day yesterday, too—his feet were bare, shoes gone unless he had to trek around the treacherous house or yard—but then, could be she _knew_ how well her legs were accented by heels and boots; she was already trying to kill him with the shorts, why not throw a pair of lace-ups on his funeral pyre?

She was a silent killer—he didn't think she'd _accidentally_ put on a black bra with a see-through, half-unbuttoned _white_ shirt, not that he could do shit about it, save ordering her to put a paper sack on, and he wasn't about to try that. She'd been silent as she slept last night, curled so close to him even in the tepid swelter that he'd had to turn his back to her and bite the pillow, only to disappear _getting ice water_ for twenty minutes this morning.

It was unfortunate enough that he'd wanted to sleep with her the moment McAlister introduced them in San Diego; it was worse that all of that restrained lust was condensed into this godfor_saken _attic where there was nothing but blazing heat and a bed—a bed he wanted to fuck her on, and yet he was simply leaning against while he salivated over her and strained his eyes trying to see if he could see, _just_ enough past the hem of the denim shorts, if her panties matched the bra.

She tilted her head, arched her neck, and lowered her binoculars, pushing her hair back and adjusting a knob on the black equipment in her hands. As she lifted them back to her eyes, positioning them over her nose lightly and angling them out the tiny, dirty round window, she said:

"Jethro."

It wasn't a question, but it didn't seem like a statement either.

He had become _Jethro_ instead of _Gibbs_ not long after he had walked in on her wearing only a towel in Serbia.

He grunted in response.

"Are you doing that on purpose?" she asked in her alto voice.

Her voice that reminded him of whiskey.

"Doin' what?" he asked gruffly.

"Your foot," she said mildly, hardly moving as she kept her eyes on their surveillance target. "You're currently caressing my ribs with it."

His eyes snapped to the leg he had stretched out, and he clenched his fist on his knee—_dammit_, his foot _was_ pushing up her shirt, toes pressing into her ribcage, damn near on their way to brushing her bra.

Well. That was embarrassing.

Gibbs yanked his foot back, risking a splinter as it dragged along the wooden floors. He could have head-slapped himself for such a lack of conscious self control; that kind of advance on her could get him in serious trouble, trouble he deserved if he made her feel the _least_ bit threatened.

She afforded him a glance over her shoulder, green eyes meeting his, and back to the binoculars she went, and her shoulders dipped in a nonchalant shrug.

"No harm, no foul," she murmured diplomatically. "Though in this heat, if skin to skin contact is necessary, I'd prefer it be your hand," she said blithely, as if she were asking after his health, "or your mouth," she added flippantly.

Taken aback, slack-jawed at her words, he stared at the crown of her head, his pulse throbbing hard.

Had he heard-?

"What?" he asked, sounding harsher and tenser than he'd intended.

"Merely a suggestion, Jethro," she answered in the same unaffected, butterscotch voice.

She adjusted the lens of the binoculars again, her head dipping slightly.

"If you would prefer to continue to stare at my ass whilst pretending you're unaffected by our proximity, I'll allow it," she murmured coolly. "Though I doubt keeping your hands off would do either of us any good."

He narrowed his eyes at her, his attention suddenly drawn from her shorts to her shoulders.

"_You're_ the one not wearing any clothes," he accused gruffly.

"You're mistaken," she retorted. "If I were naked, I'd be much cooler. As it stands, I have my favorite shorts on."

She pulled the binoculars from around her neck and set them aside, pushing her hair back again. He moved forward, stretching out his hand brazenly, and as she was inviting—if not outright demanding—a physical advance, he tugged the edge of the denim, his fingers slipping underneath the hem.

"You call these shorts?" he growled, scowling.

She rose up on her knees, stretching like a cat, and his hand slid from her hem down the back of her thigh, resting at the bend of her knee. She moved, adjusting the video camera they had trained on their target, and turned over, leaning back on her arms and looking at him.

She smirked; she didn't answer. She drew one leg up, and the denim stretched over the tops of her thighs, binding to her skin tightly. She nudged his barefoot with her boot and then lunged forward, reaching for the laces, her breasts pressed into her knee, one long leg still stretched out flat in front of her—a testament to her flexibility.

Her loose shirt slipped off her shoulder, bared skin at her throat and chest. He could see the black bra again, and she tilted her head, arching her neck, consciously giving him a better view as she unlaced her shoes.

"Haven't seen a thing since ten," she murmured, jerking her elbow at the window and equipment behind her. "Targets operate in the evening, early hours of the morning," she said.

She pulled off her boot and started on the other, shrugging smoothly.

"No sense in looking for something that isn't there for the time being," she slipped her foot out of the boot and her fingers in-between her toes, wriggling them in relief. She closed her eyes for a moment, then reached behind her to her neck, pulling her hair off of it until a messy handful at the top of her head, and she looked at him with bright green eyes, still leaning forward against her knees.

"Hot as Hell's kitchen in here," she drawled.

"You're tellin' me," he groused, his eyes fixed on her.

She clicked her tongue softly.

"You shouldn't complain, Jethro," she chastised, shifting onto her knees, and then to her feet, as she picked her way through the clutter of their personal items and work equipment to get to the cooler. She popped open the top, a puckered frown of dismay gracing her lips as she found the contents melted and clammy-warm, and she plunged her hand in, taking out a drenched water bottle and letting the excess liquid splash down the front of her white shirt.

She unscrewed the top and shot him a wry look.

"No one is making you keep your clothes on," she said mildly.

She cocked her eyebrow at him, and tipped her head back for a drink.

His eyes raked over her, a gaze that was half outraged and half tortured at her behavior. He wasn't unused to her vibrant, visible sexuality; it radiated from her as strongly as her formidable personality, woven into her being seamlessly.

She was a woman who stood her ground in a man's world by thrusting her femininity and sexuality into their faces and refusing to apologize for it. She was unashamed of it, in control of it, and rather than project a cold front that hummed with hostility and silent accusations of sexism, she voiced blunt and honest opinions and preferences about sex to put it in the open, take their power away, and dare them to criticize her for it.

It made men nervous; that's how it _worked_ so well.

Gibbs _liked_ it.

He _liked_ that he didn't have to tread a fine line of sensitivity with her.

Their banter, sharp-tongued exchanges, and arguments, were highly suggestive, often sexually charged—not that either of them had blatantly acknowledged it or touched it to date. It was a subtle understanding between them, a tacit agreement that they were both tempted by the other, and it was left at that perhaps because it was exhilarating to feel it _sizzle_.

This, though—this dressing so provocatively, her flagrant verbal hints, it was more than flirtation it was—

"You tryin' to seduce me, Jen?" he asked from the floor, his arm still hanging lazily over his knee.

She met his eyes again over the water bottle and lowered it from her mouth, screwing the top back on and then chucking it at him. He caught it effortlessly in his hand, the dull _smack_ resounding around the room, and she licked her lips.

She pulled at the low collar of her shirt, fanning her face.

"I certainly wouldn't be dressed like this if I was on a stakeout with Decker," she answered vaguely.

She crossed the room lightly, avoiding stepping on anything, and stood in front of him, gathering her hair up to hold it off her neck again. She looked down at him, her lips quirking up at the corners. Her shirt lifted with her arms. Her denim shorts didn't have buttons, but white, sneaker-like laces, beachy and easy to pull over a swimsuit. He could see black lace through the crisscrossed ties.

He pulled the water bottle towards him, and she bent her knees, sinking down gracefully until they were pressed against either side of his thighs and she was sitting on his lap, her back against his raised knee. He held the water bottle in the air near his shoulder, surprised but not stupid enough to show it; she let her hair fall down her back.

"Is it working?" she asked, managing to look straight at him and up _through_ her eyelashes simultaneously.

It was rhetorical; she knew damn well it was working.

"In a word?" he asked, taking a drink of water and then recapping the bottle, letting it roll away carelessly. "Yeah," he said hoarsely.

He put his hands on her thighs, moving them up until the brushed and slipped under the hem of her shorts. Her skin was hot to the touch, bathed in a thin sheen of humid sweat.

Jenny watched him touch her, her red hair framing her face wildly.

"It isn't really a seduction," she remarked, tilting her head back and pressing her knees into his thighs. She bit her lip and reached out, letting her hand fall from the collar of his t-shirt to the button of his jeans, her painted nails lingering there. She arched a brow.

"Think I'm that easy?" he drawled.

She unfastened the button and leaned forward, pressing her chest into his as she pulled open his zipper.

"No," she said aggressively.

"No?" he snorted, arching an eyebrow.

She shook her head, her hands hooked into his jeans, her nose close to his.

"You and I both know _damn_ well the only thing stopping us was your divorce papers. You signed them before the op in Belgrade. You could have fucked me in Serbia," she said, lowering her voice. "You didn't. You walked in on me in a _towel_, and bowed out like a gentleman. You're not easy."

He swallowed, moving his hands on her thighs, his fingertips pressing into her warm flesh.

"Decker was there," he protested.

That farmhouse had been _tiny_, a sorry excuse for a safe house—it had been sweltering there, too, and they'd had nothing to do all day but play poker or prowl through the grassland around, exploring.

She pursed her lips.

"And I was sleeping _naked_," she tempted, chastising him for his missed opportunity.

He gripped her thighs—she had to know he couldn't push her sexually; he was her superior, she was a female junior agent, a bad result had lawsuit written all over it. She didn't seem truly bothered, and he was enjoying this turn of events regardless.

"What about last night?" he asked tightly, fighting the urge to yank her hips down tighter on his.

"What about it?"

"You didn't make a move," he accused.

She laughed.

"You made _me_ wait," she retorted, and cocked her head. "I slept in a bed with you with no bra on, and you thought that wasn't a _move_—or do you just think I'm a _shameless_ tramp?"

He shrugged.

"Don't care if you're a shameless tramp," he said.

She smirked and gripped his shirt in her hands, drawing it up slowly, her knuckles brushing his chest, her eyes roaming over it, and then she pulled the shirt off his head, her hands falling to his neck. She rose up on her knees a little, pressing her torso against his. His hands went around to the back of her thighs, holding possessively.

"You wanted it this morning," she said to him, her lips close to his mouth. "You thought about it," she locked her fingers behind his head, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. "You thought about it while you jerked off."

His eyes snapped to hers intensely, narrowing sharply. She made a noise in the back of her throat, a soft, enticing noise, and smirked at him wickedly.

"I'm not stupid, Jethro," she murmured huskily. "What do you think _I _was doing in Serbia, while you _restrained_ yourself, drinking that damn vodka with Decker," she trailed off, her voice falling into silence in a natural way, and then her lips were on his with no hesitant, tentative pretense—she was teeth and tongue from the moment their mouths touched, and he couldn't help but groan in relief at the contact.

He wrapped his arms around her waist tightly, tips of his fingers brushing her breasts lightly on either side through the thin shirt. He bunched the material in his fingers, giving in when she tilted his head back, pressed him into the metal bed frame behind him. She kissed him hard enough to make him forget it was too hot to have her sitting on him fully clothed; she kissed him hard enough that he forgot he was supposed to breathe, and when she pulled back, panting, her lips brushing his promisingly, he was relieved he wasn't the only one.

Her lashes were thick, framing her wide green eyes as they met his.

"You sure, Jen?" he muttered.

"We should discuss this like adults," she said, pressing kisses to his mouth—heated, demanding, kisses.

"Might be a bad idea," he said flippantly.

She nodded; they both implicitly understood they were simply following formalities that ensured they would someday be able to pretend that they'd known what they were getting into.

He slid his hands down her sides and pushed her hips down onto his tightly, making sure her legs were spread over him in a sufficiently satisfying way. She let her head fall back a little and sucked in her breath, pulling her nails lightly down his chest and loosening his unzipped jeans.

Her eyes met his again, her lips parted slightly. She raised her hands to her chest and unbuttoned the last two buttons on her blouse, tugging at the material so it slouched and exposed the black bra that cupped her breasts. She made it inarguably clear to him—she established a firm precedent of consent—that she—

"I want to fuck you, Jethro," she said huskily.

His hands were all over her suddenly—so aggressive, so passionate, she didn't know how he was doing it; his hand was on her shoulder, running over her back, pushing a bra strap down her arm with the sleeve of her shirt, cupping her breast, unlacing her denim shorts, and resting over her lower back, holding her on him tightly.

She gasped, overwhelmed, shivered in his grip, caught her bearings, tilted her head back—and let herself enjoy it for a minute, amplifying the pleasure of his hands touching her, finally touching her, by thinking of all the scenarios she'd let run wild in her head when she fantasized about him in Serbia, in Paris, in all the cities they'd been in, while she touched herself.

Jenny pressed her lips to his neck, nipping his sensitive skin, drawing growls from him, trailing her mouth down his shoulder, to his chest, generous with her lips and her tongue. His hand on her breast, firm without being painful, made her head spin and her stomach contract desperately; she ground her hips into his, making use of the inseam of her shorts and the contours of him she could feel through his jeans.

He tangled his hand in her hair, wrapping strands around each finger, taking a handful in his fist, and he pulled her head up, flicking his eyes over her, holding her gaze while his hand moved inside her shirt and she bit her lip, turned on by the lust in his eyes. His hand travelled down her front, over her stomach, and dipped into her jeans, fighting with the loosened laces, slipping under the black lace panties.

She gasped hard, her chest aching for air, and shifted so he had a better angle to stroke her. She tightened her muscles, tightened her knees against his thighs; she dipped her head forward, ignoring how his hand tugged at her hair, and she pressed her lips to his, moaning his name into his mouth.

His tongue traced the outline of her lips, probing her mouth, making her push his head back, almost shove her tongue down his throat in desperation to match the ferocity of his kiss, and her nails raked down his chest again, leaving pale white marks that would soon darken to red scratches. She pushed her hands under his jeans, running them around his hips, teasing the edge of his briefs, and then she thrust her hips into his, arching into the ministrations of his hand, pressing her forehead against his and breaking the kiss, losing her breath again.

It was too much too fast after waiting too long; she could feel the tension tremble, ready to snap and break in her stomach, _crash_ over her, and she yanked at his jeans aggressively, her eyes half-closed. She took a few deep breaths and he was captivated by it, the way her body moved when she tilted her head back and inhaled. Her lips moved soundlessly; he narrowed his eyes critically, looking intently at her—she was chasing it, she was about to come undone—

Gibbs grinned and unraveled his hand from her hair, drawing it down her back. His palm pressed into her lower back, running over her ass, lifting her so he could inch her shorts down some, grant him a little more give in the material, and she shuddered, and bit her lip again.

"Jethro, Jethro," she moaned, her whole body tight and tense in his arms.

Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth; her head moved back and forth a little. He knew she wanted him to back off, fearing it would be over to quickly; he hadn't expected her to be this easy, and when he found that she was, he took advantage of it. Her hands finally, finally moved under his jeans and his boxers and he faltered for a moment when her hand found him.

Her mouth found his again, and he smirked against her lips; he pressed his thumb against her hard and drove two fingers inside her. Her mouth opened and she cried out, swearing, her hands suddenly pressing flat into his stomach, and then she slipped them up to his neck again, collapsing against his chest heavily, her lips resting against his jaw.

"Mmm," she murmured huskily. "Fuck," she swore, the curse hitting his ears like electricity.

He eased his fingers back gently; her teeth scraped against his lower lip and she raised her head, her forehead falling into his again. Her eyes fluttered, met his, and she squeezed his shoulders, her muscles softly and pliable, her breathing short and quick.

"Easy, Jen," he soothed smugly; she shifted in his lap, thrusting her hips down hard into his, and a grunt escaped his lips; his eyes and the clench of his jaw betrayed him.

"You could have been a part of that," she said breathlessly, still reeling from the intensity of the climax—and how quickly he'd pushed her to it.

She was still clothed, she was still aching to feel more than his fingers inside her; she was satisfied in the way appetizers tempted for the main course. Her heart was slamming into her chest, her skin burning.

"Pace yourself," he retorted brazenly.

Her hands moved languidly from his neck to his open jeans again, a sultry glint in her green eyes. She bristled at him telling her how to handle her body—poor thing; he was probably jealous; if he'd come that quickly they'd be done; she was just getting started.

"We'll see how long you last," she challenged—she knew damn well what he'd done to himself this morning wasn't near enough to establish stamina in the face of her.

She was looking at him when she yanked down his jeans and freed him from them, pressing her body close to him, her hands between them, slender fingers running over him. His head fell back against the metal frame of the bed and his breathing quickly grew shallow; she swallowed hard watching him; she felt powerful, possessive—intimate.

Jenny pressed her lips to his throat, her tongue tracing the dips in his collarbone, and he groaned, his hand tangling into her hair again.

"Point taken," he forced out between his teeth. He shoved his hand between them and stopped her. "Easy," he grunted, repeating the word.

She stood up, and he reached for her thigh, his hand running over it, leaning forward to admire her from this angle. She pushed her shorts to the floor, used her toe to shove them away, and she drew the shirt over her head. He straightened up and pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh, his teeth grazing her skin lightly, kissing a teasing trail upwards.

Her hand slid into his hair and he tightened his grip, just above her knee, placing his other hand on her hip, ready to catch her if her knees buckled. She slipped her fingers into his, squeezing tightly, connecting with him. His lips lingered on her thigh, and she went to unfasten her bra, slipping the black item off and draping it over his bare shoulder. He was distracted, and looked up; she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back, sinking to her knees again over his lap.

His hands with to her breasts, his mouth to her neck, and she bit her lip, enjoying it for a moment, and then she drew her hand up the inside of his thigh and touched him again, her wrist working in succinct, quick, twists, drawing a groan from him. His hand dropped below her navel, wrenching the thin strip of black panties aside, teasing her again, and she gasped, unable to stand that _ache_ for him any longer.

He didn't expect her to take him inside her right away, wasn't ready—he thought they'd move to the bed—and he clenched his teeth when she did, holding back a shout.

"Jen," he groaned, burying his face in her neck, his stomach clenching.

She was tight, wet; she was holding on to his sides, taking a moment to adjust; he focused on breathing—he tilted his head back and looked at her through a haze of desire; she met his eyes, nudged his cheek with her nose, and pressed her mouth to his in a slow, intimate kiss that seemed to touch the very depths of him.

She moved against him languidly, testing her sensitivity, her mouth matching her hips, and he let her draw the kisses down his jaw to his neck; his hands went to her hair, her back, her hips.

"Ah, damn," he muttered, swallowing hard. "Jesus _Christ_, Jenny," he swore, sitting straight, lunging forward and wrapping his arms tight around her back.

She pushed back against him, making him fight against her resistance, shove his hips up against her, and her breasts pressed against his chest; she reached behind him and grasped the metal frame of the bed. He saw her wince as her knees slammed into the wooden floor, but though of her discomfort was stricken from his mind at the thrust of her hips.

She moved harder, her hair falling into his eyes, and she squeezed her knees against him, numb to the scrapes she was getting. Her lips found his again, and she murmured to him, kissing him, whispering to him huskily. She was rough, and he followed her lead. He leaned back, his head banging into the frame, and her knees protested as she thrust against him, her stomach clenching and she cried out, turning her lips against his temple.

"God, Jethro," she moaned. "Fuck, oh my _god."_

She arched her back, and then pressed her teeth to his shoulder, biting down—it broke him; he yanked his hand through her hair, other hand bruising her hip, holding her to him firmly. His shoulders shuddered as he came, muttering her name reverently.

She gasped again, her loosening her grip on the bed frame, and then flattening her palms against his chest. She relaxed, resting against him heavily, her skin slick, sweaty and hot—but it wasn't sweltering; the blistering, suffocating heat of the attic seemed to be gone—at least, gone from their minds.

It felt cooler; less tense.

He took a minute to let his head clear and his blood stop pounding in his ears. He stroked her back; his touch soft and light. He relished the feeling of her breathing softly against him, catching her breath.

Jenny lifted her head, her hands still resting on his chest. Her eyes fell to his mouth; she bit her lip and shifted her knees, wincing a little. She was going to be sore, scraped knees among other things, and she was suddenly searching for her confidence; she felt vulnerable. She had wanted this, intended this, and now doubts gripped her; this could irrevocably damage their working relationship. She was tired of waiting for him to make a move, so she had done it, but if she had let him do it-well, she might feel less like it would be a one time thing.

This—_attraction_ between them, it had always pointed to inevitable consummation; they had both been hypersensitive to it, aware of it, holding it in their hands like a grenade—and she had chosen to pull the pin. It struck her abruptly there was a possibility that when two people focused their energy on holding back a physical relationship, the void was inadvertently filled with an emotional connection.

She moved, rising up a little, and he caught her hair in his hands, shaking his head.

"Don't," he said gruffly, his voice scratchy. "Don't move," he muttered.

She pressed her fingertips into his chest and she smiled at him, arching an eyebrow. She tilted her head towards the small, neglected window.

"The stakeout," she reminded him.

He shook his head again.

"The heat," he reminded her huskily.

She had said it herself; the sinister targets were only active in the evening and early morning, and they had their video camera set up to capture stray activity.

He ran his thumb over her swollen bottom lip, smearing red lipstick onto his thumb. He looked at it, mildly curious to know if it was staining his neck and mouth. She lifted her hand to her face and touched her own mouth, and laughed throatily, leaning forward, resting her head on his shoulder. Gibbs grinned, and kissed her temple.

Seven days they were assigned to this torrid Marseille heat—and they had five left.

* * *

She had slipped his t-shirt on. It was big, but it didn't cover much more than the shorts, and she was totally bare underneath it. It was noticeably hot again, and she welcomed the cool touch of antiseptic on her knee, though it stung a bit. He had dragged out the first-aid kit to clean up the scratches and raw scrapes she'd garnered from the attic floor; she hadn't even flinched when he'd yanked a splinter out.

She turned towards him, her leg in his lap, and splayed her hand over a flayed, scarred section of skin below his ribcage. Her fingers traced the ridges of the injury. It was a pale imprint of the wound it had once been, a vague memory of a bloody, botched op in Naples three months ago. Naples had been two months after they started in Paris. She had thought he was going to die in the safe house in Positano. It would have been on her hands; they had been in Naples fixing a mistake _she_ made in the city of light.

"You were such a pain in the ass in Italy," she said mildly, her fingers running over the healed scar again.

"Yeah, gettin' shot's a real walk in the park, Jen," he retorted.

He leaned over her and wiped at the scrape on her other knee, letting his eyes wander over her lazily.

"You took it out on me," she reminded him, pouting her lips. "I didn't shoot you."

He put away the antiseptic and tossed the first aid bag to the floor, stretching out next to her. His eyes were on the hem of his t-shirt, hitting just at the top of her thighs, and she shifted her legs, rubbing her ankle against his.

"Nah, if you'd made the shot, you'd have missed," he drawled mockingly.

She slapped her palm into his chest, narrowing her eyes.

"My shot in Paris was killer," she said coolly.

"Killed the wrong guy."

"Streetlight was flickering in my eyes."

Her words were flippant; her feelings on the matter were not. They had been meant to take down the corrupt French intelligence officer; Jenny had mistakenly taken out the innocent one who had informed on him. If it hadn't been for Gibbs quick shot and even quicker thinking—

"You got off on giving me a hard time," she remarked wryly.

"Figured you owed me for covering your ass," he answered. "Damn sight better than those shorts did."

She turned onto her side. The t-shirt rode up. Her hair fell to one side, messy and tangled still. She arched an eyebrow primly, the sexy confidence he was so attracted to glittering in her irises.

"I hardly think I deserved to be compared so venomously to your ex-wife."

He snorted. He'd bitched enough about his recently failed marriage to make Jen a veritable expert on the matter, though he hadn't mentioned what had been the defining factor in the unraveling of this latest one. She let her hand fall from the bullet wound and rest between them, raising her eyes to his.

"It would have been simpler not to cover me," she said bluntly.

He shrugged. She arched her brows, pursing her lips.

"You do it because you wanted to sleep with me?" she asked in her brash, vibrant way, refusing to look abashed or even remotely wary of the inquiry.

He lifted his jaw, shook his head roughly. It wasn't that shallow of a reason behind his decision.

"You don't waste good," he said gruffly. He inclined his head at her. "You're _good_, Jen."

She smirked, and laughed derisively.

"He says, while she lays half-naked next to him," she drawled, clearly skeptical of his sincerity.

Her lips puckered, and she turned onto her back, studying the ceiling silently. She _liked_ this, she liked the absence of sexual tension, she liked the fibers and sinew of their relationship. They were cut from the same cloth, and because of that, there was no need for her to have feared she damaged their working relationship; sex went hand in hand with it. It removed frustration and replaced it with implicit understanding.

She rolled over and stood up, her feet hitting the floor lightly. She went near the window, picking up a bottle of lukewarm water, and she drank some, offering it to him only to be rejected. Throwing it into the midst of their scattered things, she walked to the edge of the bed and leaned against the metal post, looking at him, her hungry eyes lingering on his jeans.

"You drink hot coffee in the summer, wear jeans in this oven," she murmured. Her eyes lifted to his face and she swallowed, her throat moving. "Take them off."

He glared at her mildly; didn't move. He wasn't going to let her be the aggressor this time; she had taken him by surprise this afternoon, shocked him with her forwardness—he hadn't even entertained the idea of hitting on her, and she had blindsided him, and they had kick started what he knew was going to be a full-blown affair. He shifted off the bed, stood, and met her at the bedpost, one arm snaking around her waist, pulling her hips into his.

Her eyes held his, and she unbuttoned the jeans, and pushed them down to the floor. She dipped her hand into his boxers. His expression didn't change even as her hand brushed against him; he pressed into her hand, and pulled the t-shirt up over her head. It was so hot she didn't even shiver.

He pulled back and looked down at her, drinking in the sight. He smirked and met her eyes again.

"You're right," he growled, and she cocked an eyebrow. "I should have done this in Serbia," he asserted.

His lips hit hers again, and she pushed his boxers to join his jeans.

* * *

Her knuckles were white as she gripped the metal behind her. Her hair clung to her lips and her shoulders, damp and sticky with sweat, and she writhed under the expertise of his mouth. She moaned and arched her back, her foot straining against his bicep. His hair tickled her navel as he assaulted her with his tongue.

His teeth grazed her; her breath caught in her throat—and he stopped, kissing his way up her abdomen to her throat, his hand between them, and he thrust inside her hard and bit his teeth to her shoulder, groaning.

She stole his moment of weakness to release the frame behind her, push his shoulders, and flip him under her, lowering her mouth to his. She traced his lips with her thumb before she kissed him; his tongue curled around it and then she grasped his shoulders, kissing him hard, moving her hips in that teasing way that gave him only half of what he wanted.

He let her straddle him a moment, let her get a rhythm, and then he grabbed her knees, fingers digging into the dips at the back, and he pulled her back under him, his eyes meeting hers intensely. She tilted her head back, a throaty moan escaping her lips. He gripped her hips roughly and drew his hand gently up one of her legs, lifting it against his shoulder, his mouth brushing her ankle possessively.

She murmured in French, a string of butterscotch, throaty words, and she bit her lip briefly, before her lips parted.

"Harder, Jethro, harder," she begged.

Her hands ran through her hair, tangled in the sheets, and then found the metal frame again, her favorite thing to grip and brace herself with. He eased her leg down and moved over her, closer to her, as much skin on skin as he could manage, complying with her request, hard, slow thrusts that seemed to make her shoulders shake.

He pressed his lips to her jaw, slid his hand to hers on the sheets, and tangled their fingers—squeezed.

She cried out hoarsely; he felt her stomach tighten against his. Her lips found his again, briefly, aggressively, and then she nipped at his ear, her breath coming in short gasps, mumbling his name in a plea.

His breathing was heavy, short; he was tense, focused on holding back, his knees jaw set with the effort it took to hold out—

"Jenny," he groaned, burying himself in her, hips tight against hers.

He lowered his forehead to her shoulder heavily, loosening up, listening to her quick breathing. Her hand was in his hair, stroking; he looked up, touching her hair, searching her eyes, a silent question, because he wasn't sure if she'd—

She just nodded, her eyes half-closed, and turned her head, pulling their entwined hands to her lips and kissing his knuckles.

* * *

She slept, exhausted, while he took the night shift, photographing targets as they boarded the Lebanese freighter.

It hadn't been prudent to neglect sleep and sustenance while they explored each other. They had dutifully remembered to record the surveillance appropriately, breaking in times of lull to turn their attention back to the bed—and it resulted in fatigue and irritability.

The heat was still suffocating; they were easily distracted from it now.

He adjusted the binoculars.

She didn't sleep in the bed; she slept next to him, half in his lap. She had the sheet folded under her, his t-shirt, and her black panties on. Her hair tangled over her face and shoulders, and she curled into him, her lithe body stretched against his. He was in the habit of keeping his leg in between hers while she slept.

She jerked in her sleep—whimpered—and he pushed her hair back, watching her lips move and her eyes flicker beneath her lids. He was used to it; he knew she didn't sleep well. He ran his hand over her back and she settled, her chest rising and falling deeply.

He thought once he'd slept with her it would be over with; he instead felt attached; ensnared.

* * *

She held the binoculars to her eyes again, careful not to rest them on the bridge of her nose for fear of bruising it, and she bit her lip, swallowing hard as she focused on the final loading of the freighter, documenting the departure of it.

Gibbs hand pressed into her shoulder, his fingertips marking her skin, gentle and firm at once. His hand was braced on the floor beside her elbow, his knees sliding against her thighs, and she bit back a moan every time he thrust into her and his lips brushed the back of her neck.

She lowered the binoculars, and picked up the camera, focusing and snapping pictures. She held the camera a little too tightly, bit her lip until she drew blood—and she turned her head, glancing at him over her shoulder. His aroused blue eyes met hers and she parted her lips, her hands shaking.

"I don't know if this is better or worse than ignoring the stakeout altogether," she said huskily.

She turned back to the task at hand, capturing one last photo of the Lebanese captain, and the camera tumbled from her hands—luckily onto the tangled up sheet. She ran her hands back through her hair, tangling her fingers in it. A cry escaped her lips and she lowered her head, arching her back at the perfect moment.

"_Christ_, Jen," he swore hoarsely, grabbing her shoulder and slamming her back into him.

She winced at the force, gasped at the strength, and moaned when her climax broke through her unexpectedly, snatching the air right out of her lungs. Her lips formed words; she made no sound. She savored the moment he collapsed against her, relaxed, heavy, close, and then he kissed her shoulder, mumbled a good morning in her ear, and pulled out carefully.

He stood, dressing while she turned over and recovered. She followed suit, finding her last clean pair of panties in her empty bag and slipping them on. She straightened the t-shirt she'd taken to wearing since he'd offered it to her.

Gibbs turned off the video camera. She gathered her hair in her hands, and then let it fall, sighing shakily.

"Coffee first?" she suggested.

They just had to pack up their equipment.

He nodded in agreement, and took the rotting old ladder down from the attic first, spotting her as she followed. He stood closer to her when she steadied her feet on the ground, his hand on her lower back.

She glanced up at him through her lashes, coquettish, much like she had when she had started this so indelicately.

"You're buying me dinner in Paris, Jethro," she told him.

He smirked roguishly.

"Hell, I'll spring for a bottle of fine wine."

* * *

She prowled around the attic, taking a final inventory of the corners to ensure they had left nothing that would give even the barest hint of their presence. Things must be left as they were found; empty, abandoned, unlived in.

She was exhausted and refreshed simultaneously; she looked forward to sleeping on the train back to Paris. She wouldn't miss the coastal Marseille heat; she would miss the seclusion and the wilderness of the attic, the intimacy of the stakeout.

It was six days of mind-blowing sex; inexplicable emotional attachment that she thought set them both a little on edge and a little reckless. She didn't give a thought to whether or not they would resume their affair in Paris—it was transparent in Paris, Ducky was there, Decker was there, they had covers to maintain and perilously important jobs to do—still, there was no returning to the balanced tango they'd danced before Marseille.

She picked up her bag, and beneath it, a square of plastic caught her eye. She crouched to pick it up for disposal, and when she knelt, she stumbled a little, her knee banging to the attic floor. She winced; her scrapes were still healing. She flattened her palm and held the condom in her hand, remembering with stark, hollow feeling that she had these with her for a reason, and they'd been forgotten, completely, utterly, _forgotten_ in her abandon.

She had intended to seduce him while they were on assignment here; she had come prepared, and now she mentally berated herself for this misstep-had she had _heatstroke,_ for the love of God?

Jenny pressed her wrist to her mouth, closing her eyes, her head spinning. She forced herself to consider her track record with her pill since she'd come to Europe—not the best, but surely enough to protect her?

She had the unshakeable feeling that it was too late. One slip up wasn't much of a threat; six days of slip ups was spitting in the face of chance.

The plastic wrapping crackled and she pushed her hair back, looking at the condom again, her mind rapidly translating the French writing.

"Jen?" Gibbs called gruffly up the stairs. "You comin'?"

She narrowed her eyes.

"Yeah," she answered.

She stood up, slid the condom into the tight pockets of the shorts that drove Jethro so wild, and forced herself—to forget about it.

She should have seen, forgotten on the floor, resting in her palm, snug in her back pocket, the inevitable darkness that was always going to be entwined with the inevitability of their affair.

She didn't.

* * *

***_has no connection to any of my other backstory works._**

_Feedback appreciated.  
-Alexandra  
story #114_


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